The Impulse of the Moment

by Jann Rowland

  It seemed to Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy was taking pains to come to know her brother, who in turn appeared willing to allow the gentleman the benefit of the doubt. Strange though it was, for she had thought them well on their way toward friendly relations when they had lately become acquainted, now it seemed they were each careful around the other. Whether this was because of Mr. Darcy’s caution or any distrust Thomas still harbored, Elizabeth could not say. Regardless, she was grateful they were taking such care to get on with each other, for she knew it was for her sake.

  Every word which passed from Mr. Darcy’s mouth, Elizabeth heard, and she was thrilled at the gentleman’s intelligence. Even more, however, she was happy to be the recipient of his deference, for it was clear that she was the most important person in the room to the gentleman. And was that not what every woman wished? To be of utmost significance to the gentleman who paid her the compliment of his attentions? It made her feel warm inside; Elizabeth could not determine if this feeling was love, but she was more kindly disposed toward the gentleman than ever before.

  “I wish to offer you my apologies,” said Jane when they had retired to the parlor after dinner. Though Elizabeth had not attempted to sit aloof from the other members of the family, she found herself alone with Jane, situated on a pair of chairs slightly separated from the rest.

  “If anyone deserves to apologize,” said Elizabeth, “I believe it would be me. I should have told you of my changed opinion of Mr. Darcy and his attempts to make amends.”

  “Perhaps you should have,” said Jane. “But no one should be forced to share the innermost contents of their heart if they wish to keep it private. I . . .” Jane paused, gathering her composure. “I saw what was happening between you, but I misinterpreted it, as I still suspected Mr. Darcy.”

  “It is understandable, Jane. Had I taken you into my confidence again, none of this would have happened.”

  “Perchance it would not have.” Jane paused and shook her head in frustration. “It is not my way to be suspicious of others, as you well know. You have often told me to take care of others until I know of their motives. But watching Mr. Darcy with as much suspicion as I did is not like me. It went sorely against the grain.”

  “Jane,” said Elizabeth, looking her sister in the eye and forcing her to do the same. “I do not wish you to change, for you are exactly how you should be. A little suspicion is good, of course, and your suspicions of Mr. Darcy were just, for I did not give you a reason to discard them. I repeat: there is nothing for which you must apologize. Your care of me was, as always, exceptional. In the future, I shall attempt to avoid taking your feelings for granted.”

  It was apparent Jane was still not reconciled to her behavior. Elizabeth, wishing her sister to forget the past, embraced her and held her close. “Let us leave this disagreeable subject, Jane, for I do not wish to cast blame.”

  “I agree. But there is one large problem with Mr. Darcy’s interest in you, Lizzy.”

  Elizabeth pulled back and looked at her sister with curiosity, noting that Jane wore a teasing smile, one which was more often seen on Elizabeth’s own countenance. Apparently, her desire to tease Elizabeth was strong, for she took Elizabeth’s questioning glance as an invitation to continue.

  “The problem is Mr. Darcy’s estate is in Derbyshire. When you marry, you shall be situated at such a distance as to make frequent visits difficult. I am not ready to lose you to the north, Sister.”

  “Then perhaps you will not be required to,” said Elizabeth with a blush. “I am not engaged.”

  “From what I see, dearest Lizzy,” said Jane, leaning in close to kiss her forehead, “I suspect that condition will not persist for long.”

  At that moment Elizabeth caught sight of Mr. Darcy watching them from across the room. The tender smile he gave her caused her breath to catch in her throat. Perchance Jane was correct. Elizabeth was coming to believe she wished for such an eventuality to come to pass.

  Chapter XX

  “Can you not make these nags of yours go any faster?”

  The coachman on the driver’s seat scowled back at Wickham, and his answer was uncompromising. “If you think you can walk there faster, you are welcome to try it.”

  Wickham just waved the man on, not eager to get into a debate with an utter dullard. After two days riding post from London, he was tired and grumpy, and the only thing that kept him going was the thought of the mayhem which would ensue when he arrived. The very thought of it put a smile on Wickham’s face, one he had not had in quite some time.

  Perhaps it had been a precipitous move to announce his intention to leave Mortimer and Sons, but it had likely turned out for the best. Not only was Wickham unable to withstand another moment in the sanctimonious Mr. Patterson’s company without planting a facer on him, but his time had been limited, regardless.

  “Leaving, are you?” Patterson had said when Wickham told him his decision. “You certainly possess a flair for timing, Wickham. I would not have thought you had it in you.”

  “Timing?” had been Wickham’s response. “Do you speak of something in particular?”

  The question had prompted Patterson’s laughter. “Let us simply say that your performance has been abysmal, and the consensus was that you are not suited for the law.” The man then looked at Wickham with some appraisal, saying: “Have you found another position?”

  “Let us simply say that certain other opportunities have come to my attention,” said Wickham, echoing Patterson’s turn of phrase, “which render this position redundant.”

  “Then we shall leave it at that, for I do not desire to know more. You know where your desk and the door are—when you have gathered your personal effects, you may leave. I will return with your pay. Then our association may be at an end.”

  As it was, Wickham had little to gather, never having considered that dingy little office anything other than the prison it was. When, a few moments later, Patterson returned with his remaining pay, Wickham tipped his cap and stepped quickly from the room, hoping fervently he never had occasion to see it again. And as he walked down the street, the coins jingling in his pocket, there was a bounce in his step, regardless of the sorry state of his finances. There were new opportunities on the horizon, ones he felt certain would bear fruit.

  As the carriage rumbled on down the road leading to Pemberley, he considered the opportunity that now presented itself, the temptation to rub his hands in anticipation nigh overpowering. The news that Darcy had been resident in the family home in London had been positively providential. For not only had Wickham discovered what his former friend was doing, but with whom.

  If the knowledge of Darcy’s presence had been providential, what he had learned next was no less than a gift from God. Though difficult, Wickham had managed to obtain a little time to himself when offering to deliver an important folder of papers to a client. When that had been completed, Wickham had hurried over to Darcy’s house, just in time to see the man himself leaving in the Darcy carriage. The quick hail of a hackney had provided the means to follow him across town to his destination.

  There, Wickham had witnessed Darcy in the company of a young woman and a group of children. A young woman! Had Wickham not seen it for himself, he would not have thought the man had it in him. A cold fish such as Darcy was destined to make a marriage to some heiress even colder than himself, such that the begetting of heirs would have been a serious problem. That the woman was comely and apparently lively, from what Wickham could see, had made the matter even more surprising. As it was, the time Wickham spent watching them had almost resulted in his being dismissed from his position that very afternoon.

  Sensing a possibility for profit, Wickham had asked into the young woman and had been disappointed to discover that she was, indeed, a gentleman’s daughter from some estate in Hertfordshire. Her father’s status was not exceptional, though their property was respectable enough, from what Wickham had gleaned. But certainly no
t high enough for his patron, who expected his son to make a spectacular match, one of no less consequence than what he had managed himself.

  But the most delicious aspect of it all was what he had discovered after. It was the final piece of the puzzle to a circumstance which had the potential to pay handsome dividends.

  “The uncle is a man of trade?” asked Wickham of his investigator, the incredulous note in his voice making it go ever higher.

  “A Mr. Gardiner by name,” said the man he had hired to look into their situations. In truth, Wickham did not truly possess the means for such an expense and Mr. Sykes, as he called himself, was rough and dirty and of suspect dependability. But Wickham needed that information and was willing to do whatever it took to gain it.

  “The business is a prosperous one,” grunted Sykes. “He makes several thousand a year, by all accounts.”

  “And this Miss Bennet,” said Wickham. “What are her circumstances?”

  Sykes shrugged and scratched himself under his coat. “The daughter of a gentleman for certain. Beyond that I cannot tell you much. Stays with him periodically, decent dowry, her father has an estate in Hertfordshire.” Sykes grinned, the gaps between his missing teeth and the smell of his fetid breath making Wickham queasy. “She is worth plucking for a gentleman in your position. You could live the high life!”

  While Wickham might, under other circumstances, have considered it, in this case the information was of much more worth to him than the girl. Stealing the girl Darcy was mooning over would fire a satisfying dart right at his heart, and if her dowry was as substantial as he suspected, it would carry Wickham far. But there was the bigger picture to consider, and Wickham thought there were several ways the information could be used.

  “I can help you along, if you like.”

  Wickham turned to look at the man, noting the light of insanity shining in his eyes. This man was the dregs of society, a leach who preyed on others for nothing more than a copper. Fortunately, he was not the sort with whom Wickham usually associated, and he had no intention of continuing to do so since their business was complete.

  “The matter requires a gentle touch,” said Wickham. “I shall not require your services any longer. Here is something for your trouble.”

  Coins exchanged hands and Sykes departed, though not without a reproachful look. No doubt the man wished to kidnap the young woman for Wickham and have the first chance at her, something Wickham would not allow. While he was uncertain exactly how his plans would mature, Wickham was not about to allow a dirty ruffian like Sykes to take what was rightfully his.

  Cresting a rise in the road, Wickham could see Pemberley lying in the valley before him, the waters of the lake which lay in front of her doors sparkling like a curtain of rippling diamonds. Eagerly, Wickham gazed down upon the estate, able to feel the power of the place, the great wealth which drove it. It was said that one should not covet that which was possessed by one’s neighbor. But perhaps those who penned such philosophies had not been brought up in the shadows of such riches. Pemberley was a symbol of all the wealth in the world held by comparatively few men. Wickham was determined to obtain some of that wealth for himself.

  The entrance soon loomed before him, and as Wickham looked on, the figure of the elder Mr. Darcy appeared. The old man’s countenance was unreadable, but Wickham thought surely he must be annoyed by Wickham’s sudden appearance and, even more, the fact that he had left the position the man himself had procured. At once Wickham fell into the role he had perfected over the years, one of pleasant amiability, coupled with just a hint of humor, which he knew would garner Mr. Darcy’s favor with little effort on Wickham’s part.

  “Wickham,” greeted Mr. Darcy as he stepped down from the coach. “I was surprised to receive your letter. I thought the position was a good one for you.”

  “There was nothing wrong with the position, sir,” said Wickham in his usually easy tone. “It is merely that it did not suit me. It was best for all concerned for me to resign.”

  Mr. Darcy grunted as he led the way up the stairs and into the interior of the house. As Wickham looked about the great edifice, unchanged from the last time he had seen it, he had the sense of coming home. Yes, this visit might prove to be profitable, indeed.

  “Perhaps I shall write to them. If you have been treated in any way insufficiently, Mortimer shall not escape my wrath.”

  “It is best to let the matter rest,” said Wickham. “Our parting was mutual, and I do not regret it.”

  “Then what of your occupation? You must have something with which to support yourself.”

  “There are a few situations I have my eye on,” replied Wickham, the lie coming easily. “I am not concerned, Mr. Darcy. Do not worry for me, for I shall be well.”

  The look his patron bestowed upon him was piercing, and Wickham was instantly made uncomfortable by it. As the man’s favorite, he had rarely looked upon him in such a fashion.

  “Then should you not be in London seeing about obtaining one of them?”

  Not until you see reason, thought Wickham viciously. Out loud he said: “There is some time yet.” Pausing, Wickham directed a winsome smile at his patron. “I hope you will not be disappointed with me if I wished to visit with you for a short time. You are all like family to me—the only family with which I am blessed.”

  That last bit of flattery did the trick, for Mr. Darcy’s countenance softened and he slapped Wickham on the back. “Of course, Wickham. You know you are welcome here at any time you are at liberty to visit.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Wickham.

  Mr. Darcy handed him to the care of Harper, Pemberley’s butler, and he was conveyed to the room he usually occupied when in residence. It was not in the family apartments as Wickham would have preferred, but it was near the end of the guest wing nearby, allowing him the illusion of membership into the Pemberley family. As they walked, the butler scowled when he thought Wickham was not looking, and Wickham knew he would face the same disapproval from Reynolds, the family’s long-time housekeeper. Both had been with the family long enough to remember some of Wickham’s escapades with the maids and his disagreements with the heir. Wickham did not care for their disapproval—let them glare. He had no interest in maids at present, for he could not be turned from his goal.

  When the family gathered for dinner, Wickham joined them, using every ounce of his charm he could muster. Lady Anne, though polite, had always been rather distant from him, and Georgiana, though shy and yet a young girl, had always seen him as something of an older brother. They both greeted him with restraint, after which he paid his compliments and then attempted to charm them. Success, in their cases, was not necessary, though the prospect of Georgiana’s dowry still played in the back of his head. Perhaps he could find some way to be alone with her to begin undoing whatever her brother had assuredly told her of him. It would be slow going, but in the end it may very well be worth it.

  For a time, conversation at the dinner table was almost banal in nature, which suited Wickham’s purpose quite well. The news he had come to share would have much more impact if delivered in the face of such trivial concerns. Mr. Darcy spoke of some repairs he was making to one of the tenant cottages, while his wife mentioned some tasks she was undertaking to assist the family. Though Wickham was impatient to share what he knew, he controlled himself, forcing himself to wait for the right moment.

  “I received a letter from William this morning,” said Georgiana. Behind his mask of polite interest Wickham was smirking with glee, for the girl had provided him with the perfect opportunity.

  “Does he say when he will return?” asked Mr. Darcy bluntly. “He has already stayed with that Bingley fellow for more than a month.”

  “There is no mention of returning,” replied the girl. “In fact, I believe he is quite enjoying himself in Hertfordshire.”

  Mr. Darcy huffed in annoyance and returned to his meal. Wickham, knowing the moment had arr
ived, turned to look at Georgiana with feigned confusion.

  “Darcy is in Hertfordshire? That is odd, for I have heard he has been seen in London of late.”

  “London?” asked Mr. Darcy hopefully. Then the man frowned. “I cannot imagine what he might be doing there at this time of year.”

  “Perhaps he has followed the woman he is courting there. It is my understanding she is staying with her uncle at present.”

  “Courting?” demanded Mr. Darcy. His fork clattered to his plate, and his eyes fixed on Wickham, intensity radiating in their depths. “What do you mean? Fitzwilliam is not courting anyone.”

  Wickham looked at the man with shock. “But the rumors are all over London at present. I have not spoken with him myself, of course, but it is my understanding that the girl is from Hertfordshire, likely the same neighborhood in which he has been staying these past weeks.”

  The slamming of Mr. Darcy’s fist against the table startled them all. “I knew it was a mistake to allow intimacy with that Bingley fellow! How dare William lose his mind to the man’s sister?”

  Though Wickham had only met Bingley once, he had the distinct impression of a young man easily manipulated and dull in the extreme. This was a new angle of which he had not known. As the argument raged on about him, Wickham considered the matter, wondering if it was something he could use to modify his plans for maximum effect.

  “Mr. Bingley’s sister has recently married, Robert,” said Mrs. Darcy. The woman shot a glance at Wickham as if intending to let him know she was not misled by his attempts at obfuscation. “It cannot be his sister.”

  “Do you know anything of this woman?” snapped Mr. Darcy.

  “Not much,” replied Wickham, feigning thought. “Her name is Barnet, or something like that, but I know nothing more of her.” Then Wickham paused and said: “Though, I suppose I have heard something about an uncle in town—it must be the uncle with whom she is staying. He is quite successful there as I understand.”